


Animal Magnetism

by cinnamon_lyons



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Charles has a breakdown, Distant Erik, Erik runs a spa, French Revolution, M/M, Mesmerism, Vulnerable Charles, history of psychiatry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2468879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamon_lyons/pseuds/cinnamon_lyons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-revolutionary France, just before 1800. Erik runs a sanatarium on the outskirts of Paris, where he specialises in the Mesmeric technique of animal magnetism (although Mesmer was driven out of Paris in 1785, his followers continued to practice, and Erik has an obvious advantage). Charles is an aristocrat who was nearly killed during the Reign of Terror. He used his powers to escape but has been gradually driven mad by his experiences.</p><p>Can Erik's unorthodox cures help Charles accept his powers again? And is animal magnetism really the explanation for the attraction between the pair...?</p><p>Inspired by a comment of my boyfriend’s that “If Magneto were in the nineteenth century, he wouldn’t be a villain – he’d run a spa!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chateau Aimant

**Paris, August 1796**

Charles woke screaming.

It was a long time before he could separate the images in his head from the room around him, illuminated only by a pool of moonlight spilling in through the window opposite. At first he seemed to be at the centre of a maelstrom of people: screaming, crying, begging, dying... As the sound of their wailing, the images of slaughter, slowly faded, he was left with just the emotion: the grief, the panic, the terror of tens of thousands of anguished people. He curled up into a ball, shaking.

There was a knock on the door, and then it slowly opened. Charles barely even noticed, his heart pounding in his ears, sweat beading over his forehead. He showed no recognition when a hand was laid on his shoulder, gently shaking him.

“Monsieur!” A voice called urgently, “Monsieur!” Charles made no sign of having heard, and the owner of the voice – a middle-aged woman in servant’s dress with an anxiously furrowed brow – hurried back to the door.

“Sophie!” She called urgently, “Fetch Doctor Rigaud! Monsieur Xavier – it’s brain fever!”[1]

She returned to Charles’ bedside, sitting down and laying a hand on his still-trembling shoulder.

“Ah, Monsieur...” She sighed sadly, “It is over, the Terror is over. Can you not see that you are safe?” Dimly, Charles registered her words, but he was unable to respond through the feelings that still gripped him. It would never be over. For the rest of his life, he would know what it was like to go to the guillotine, for he had felt it a thousand times. So many people, and there had been nothing he could do for them but feel their pain. A tear crept from beneath the lids of eyes squeezed tight shut against the memories. How would he ever be safe again?

*

Doctor Rigaud sighed with gruff resignation as he slowly began to put his gloves back on, gazing down sadly at the young man on the bed, who had remained rigidly curled into a foetal position, despite their best efforts to move him.

“I have seen this many times, Madame Ballinger.” He told the agitated housekeeper. “The guillotine has been silenced, but still those in all walks of life fear its presence. The asylums are overcrowded with those driven mad by the Reign of Terror.”

“Mad?” Madame Ballinger shook her head in denial, “It is only his nerves, surely? Perhaps a rest...”

“Perhaps.” Agreed the doctor, “But the strain on his nerves has been considerable, and every attack of brain fever he suffers is longer than the last. It may be that this time he will slide into dementia.” The housekeeper fumbled for her handkerchief.

“Forgive me, Doctor, but I’ve been with the family since he was a boy...” She swallowed, struggling to control herself. “What can I do for him?” The doctor smiled kindly.

“I will furnish you with advice as to his diet, and a prescription to help with his sleep. A change of air will also do him good...” The doctor paused, suddenly remembering something. “There is a facility I have heard of that may be of some use. I hesitate to suggest, fearing quackery...” The housekeeper had glanced up at him eagerly, and he worried that he might be giving her false hope.

“Doctor, please, if there is any chance-!” The doctor nodded.

“I have heard that the owner of this sanitarium can work miracles, dear lady. I merely hesitate for he is connected with what some regard as a rather dubious practice... well, I am sure you remember the charlatan, Mesmer. This Magneto also claims to work his cure by animal magnetism.” He cleared his throat. “But I must admit that I have seen cases of mania I thought incurable improved by just a few weeks at Élancourt. I will write to the proprietor tomorrow and see if I can arrange admission, if you think fit?” The housekeeper gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“Excellent. Au revoir, Madame Ballinger.”

*

The carriage shook as it jolted along the dirt track, slowly leaving Paris behind. Charles slumped, catatonic, in the corner, staring blankly into the distance, over the fields of wheat almost ready to be harvested. Madame Ballinger shook her head sadly. The first bout of fever she had only expected after the strain of the Terror – it had been hard for all Parisians, of course, never knowing who might be the next target – but Monsieur Xavier had always seemed to feel everything so deeply. Yet she had nursed him through three more attacks in the last two years, and the doctor was right – each had been more dramatic than the last. She had thought the raving hard to bear – the screaming of names she had never heard before, gibbering about events she was not sure he had ever witnessed – but this silence was still more disconcerting. He seemed to have retreated into his mind, and if the doctor had no solution...?

She pressed her knuckles against her forehead, willing herself to hope, just as she had done through the executions, through the shortages, through the turmoil of the last few years. This Magneto – perhaps he really could offer the miracle cure that Doctor Rigaud suggested. It had all been arranged wonderfully quickly. Doctor Rigaud had returned a few days later with the papers, and then there had been the small complication of payment. Sometimes Madame Ballinger forgot that she was not, after all, Charles’ mother! But the solicitor was a family friend, and he knew the housekeeper well – knew of Charles’ troubles. The payments had been authorised, and now here they were, well on their way to Chateau Aimant at Élancourt.[2] She peered through the window, hoping for a glimpse of their destination, finally rewarded by the sight of a pair of tall gateposts at the end of the track, each embellished with a stone “U” shape. The carriage veered round the corner, gradually slowing as it clattered up the drive.

Suddenly, and so unexpectedly that Madame Ballinger had no chance of stopping him, Charles leapt to his feet, throwing open the carriage door and leaping out, stumbling on the cobbled drive.

“Monsieur!” She called out, but he had run well past the carriage before the driver reined in the horses and she was able to struggle out behind him, made far clumsier than he by her skirts. She watched, helplessly, as he charged up the long drive towards the house, thinking - well, at least he’s going in the right direction! He had reached the landscaped gardens when he cried out and stumbled, and she saw his legs buckle beneath him as he tumbled to the ground.

Madame Ballinger gathered up her skirts, and began to make her way as rapidly as she could over the slippery cobbles. She had not even reached halfway when she glanced up to see a figure towering over Charles. Madame Ballinger was not tall, and the man would have seemed imposing anyway, despite his dress. He was clothed almost entirely in black: breeches tied in ribbons just above his boots, his shirt just a little more flamboyantly cut than she would have thought wise in the current climate, with a burgundy cravat tucked into a neatly cropped riding coat. It was the cloak, however, that made his appearance particularly dramatic: a black sail, billowing out around him, lined with burgundy. Madame Ballinger quite forgot herself and simply stood there, twenty feet away, staring at him in awe.

The man crouched down beside Charles, taking his shoulders and turning his face towards him. Charles’ face was white, and he was mumbling over and over, “They’re coming! They’re coming! Can’t run...”

“You must be Charles Xavier.” He said, and then he looked up, raising an eyebrow quizzically at Madame Ballinger. “Madame?” Rather embarrassed, Madame Ballinger hurried towards him.

“Do forgive me, Monsieur.” She gasped. “It was all quite a surprise when he – he’s been so quiet, see, that I thought...” She trailed off. The man nodded, his face impassive.

“I see that it will not be an easy case.” His French was perfect, but Madame Ballinger thought she could catch a hint of an accent. Well, he was probably German, like Mesmer. He certainly didn’t look French! He smiled thinly. “I am Magneto.” He said. Madame Ballinger nodded nervously.

“I thought, er, I mean...” She blushed, finding the man very exotic and very confusing. “Madame Ballinger.” She found herself curtseying a little, and wasn’t quite sure why.

Magneto turned away, easing an arm around Charles’ shoulders, and pulling the still muttering man to his feet. Charles’ body twisted, legs dangling, seemingly unable to support his weight. Madame Ballinger hovered anxiously at his elbow, putting out a hand to Charles’ arm, rather ineffectually trying to help carry him.

“What’s wrong? Can he not walk? Is he hurt?” She asked, rather too aware that she was babbling.

“Hysterical paralysis.” Magneto said, rather curtly. “He will recover.”

 

[1] Classic late 18th/early 19th century diagnosis, thought to be a physiological disorder brought on by shock. It could be be associated with madness, but also seen as something separate. Victor Frankenstein had many bouts of it!

[2] In my head this is clever. ‘Aimant’ means ‘magnet’, but it’s very similar to ‘Aiment’ (they love)


	2. Magnetic Tractors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flu meant the update is rather later than intended. Hope it's worth the wait! :-)

Charles had been miles away during the journey – miles, and as many years – the images playing over and over in his mind so that he barely even noticed the outside world, could hardly see Madame Ballinger opposite him. It had been the horror of these images, in the end, that caused him to run desperately he-knew-not-where. It had been no good, as it never was: he couldn’t out-distance his mind. When he fell, he thought he saw the sans-culottes in the distance, knew that they were all doomed, and he cringed against the ground.

Now, he was quiet again, lying propped against cushions in a room that didn’t seem familiar. This was good, Charles decided. Unfamiliar meant no memories (and he anxiously tried to squash the rising sense of panic that he might have been brought there for nefarious purposes). He tried to move, but his legs didn’t seem to work, and this made the anxiety bubble up still further, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it in. His eyes darted around the room: a bed chamber, small and neat and mostly white-painted, with one high window letting in a thin stream of sunlight. Charles thought the window might be barred – a prison? Not like any prison he’d seen before... and here he lost his train of thought, his eyes glazing as he remembered…

**...Paris, December 1793**

He’d known it was foolish to leave the mansion, where he could keep himself relatively safe. When the executions had begun, Charles had boarded up all the windows and doors, let the grounds run neglected, in an effort to make it look as if no one was there at all. Of course, that had not stopped a number of people – the curious as well as those with homicidal intent – from approaching. But it _had_ made it relatively easy to nudge their minds away, to emphasise the idea that the building was deserted, so that no one had ever even got so far as the doorway.

But he’d wanted to know what was happening, and he could only tell so much without going into the city. He needed to know what the Republicans were doing, how long this might go on for, how many people had died... He had been sure, then, that he could help: what was the point of having such a gift if one used it only to protect oneself? So he had gone despite knowing how dangerous it was, despite the protests of Madame Ballinger, the only servant who remained with him. Stupidly, he had even been excited, had _enjoyed_ that little thrill of risk.

After walking the short distance into the village, Charles had managed to hitch a lift on a farmer’s wagon: jumping on board un-noticed as the man tethered his horses ready to carry a load of hay towards Paris. He wasn’t going quite as far as Charles needed, but close enough for it to be possible to walk to the Bastille. But it was late by the time Charles was able to creep carefully through the city streets: mostly deserted, but he passed the occasional dubious-looking fellow lurking outside a boarded-up shop or home. Once, he almost stumbled into a crowd of rowdy, well-armed sans-culottes standing outside a rather seedy hostelry. One of them opened his mouth to call out as he spotted Charles darting down a side street, and Charles had to frantically reach out with his mind so that the man shrugged, telling his mystified fellows that it must have been a stray dog.

Prying into their thoughts, Charles discovered that this little group all knew that something was happening – something important. He couldn’t get the details from any of them – presumably they didn’t know quite what was due to occur, but they did know that it would be at dawn, in the square outside the Bastille. Madame Guillotine was already prepared. Charles felt sick, wondering who was to be the victim. Perhaps if he could get there in time he could save at least one life? He swallowed hard, clenching his fists at his sides, waiting for the men to move on so that he could leave.

When Charles reached the Bastille, a crowd was already gathering in the grey, pre-dawn light. There were several guillotines, well displayed on raised wooden platforms against the high walls of the prison. Below the stockades, a muttering scrum was already establishing itself. Charles found them confusing. He couldn’t quite tell what their motivations were: part intrigue at seeing the aristocrats who would soon appear before them – closer than ever before; part hatred for those who had scorned and belittled them and jealously guarded their riches; part disgust at a new world that overwhelmed them. Each individual had these concerns and more, and Charles got a headache as increasing numbers gathered in the square. He wondered if they all knew how complex the thoughts and desires of their fellows was or if all outwardly voiced the simplistic slogans of the revolution: liberté, égalité, fraternité.

Charles reached the foot of the guillotines, standing in the shadows beside the stone walls of the prison, where the dim light made it easier to remain unnoticed as the daylight grew stronger. The crowd steadily grew larger still, but not one of the bystanders was aware that Charles was an unlikely member of the furious throng: no one noticed the difference in his dress, or the elegance of hands that had never seen labour. Charles huddled, protected at the centre of the horde, easily nudging any spark of interest away, until a sudden roar through the crowd told him that the horror had begun. He was right by the stockade, so that he saw the first prisoners marched up on the platform at close hand. Their clothes were ragged and filthy, but as obviously aristocratic as Charles’ own garb nonetheless. He shuddered inwardly. He wasn’t even sure who he related to any longer: the subdued wealthy, many of whom he knew had instigated cruelty on their estates, had had no care for other humans beyond their ability to work and increase their masters’ wealth… or the furious mob, that he now knew to be a disparate cluster of men aping determination to save face among their fellows. Were they all as bad as each other? He didn’t really know.

And then another gentleman staggered up onto the platform, and Charles sucked in a breath. He recognised him. Alexandre Etés, a young nobleman from Nantes, whose family Charles’ parents had known well. After his parents died, he had visited the Etés family, and enjoyed their hospitality. The young Etés – who had been barely twenty at the time – had been particularly taken with Charles. Charles remembered the surprised delight with which he’d caught Alexandre’s thoughts at the dinner table. To all external appearances, the young man was listening attentively to a lengthy tale of his father’s concerning the restlessness of the peasants on his estate. His mind, however, was wandering. _How delightful Monsieur Xavier looks in his well-tailored clothing!_ Alexandre mused. _I wonder how much more pleasant he would look underneath the clothes; how his body would feel; what his lips would taste like…_

The lad hadn’t been able to believe his luck when Charles had taken him aside after they had dined, and suggested the pair take a stroll into the grounds, so that they might enjoy each other’s company in private. And enjoy each other they certainly had… Charles allowed himself a small smile at the memory, before remembering the gravity of the current situation. He swallowed hard, fixing his eyes on Alexandre. The man’s hair was dirty and unkempt, but still a striking blonde. His handsome face was bruised, his clothing hung in rags. But he kept his chin high – staring proudly ahead across the crowd. Charles’ mind raced, trying to come up with a plan. Could he prevent the crowd from seeing Alex? Reach him somehow: keep them both hidden from the mob long enough to escape? Perhaps he could rescue someone else as well: but who would he choose?

As Charles plotted furiously, he suddenly realised that the lines of prisoners had not stopped coming: the platform was now crowded, with more and more men – and some women – so that Alexandre was now penned in at the centre. It seemed as if Charles would have to wait – as painful as that would be – until some of the executions had taken place so that he could reach young Etés. The first prisoners were being thrust forward onto their knees, heads pushed roughly down onto the blocks. Charles was close enough to feel their terror: too close to block any of it out. He clenched his fists. He had to get through this in order to save Alex!

The roar of the crowd increased in volume, reaching a crescendo as the wicked blades of all four guillotines arrived at their zenith. And then the ropes were released, and the cruel silver shards sped downwards, slicing through flesh and bone instantaneously. The moment of agony each man felt was blessedly brief, but each one hit Charles like a bullet nonetheless, so that he staggered and nearly fell, clinging onto his neighbour in order to remain standing.

“Here, watch it!” The man complained, turning his head to look at Charles, so that Charles instantly had to focus all his attention on forcing the man’s interest away. After a long, dangerous moment, Charles’ neighbour shrugged and turned away, forgetting what had caught his attention. Charles let out his breath in a rush, and turned back to the stockades. He just had time to catch a glimpse of the moving blades and brace himself before another furious burst of pain hit him.

Charles gritted his teeth. He needed to think fast, and it was difficult when every few minutes four more heads rolled into the baskets. The platforms seemed to keep re-filling, and he had lost sight of Alexandre. Tears started to his eyes as he began to panic. He couldn’t bear this! How many more did they plan to execute? There had been at least two dozen already. He huddled back against the wall, the pain and fear almost overwhelming him.

Through a haze of horror, Charles finally caught sight of Alex’s blond hair as his friend was forced forward towards Madame Guillotine. He held his breath, for one brief moment trying to reach out, to get a message to young Etés. If Alexandre ran, Charles could help him… But then his neighbour turned round again, and this time he shouted out before Charles could stop him.

“There is one here! Another rich bastard whose head should roll!” More heads turned, and Charles could no longer focus on Alex, but only on protecting himself. When his neighbours finally resumed watching the guillotines, the blades were once more at the top of the wooden frames. _Oh Alex…_ Charles breathed, and the sickening steel shards flashed relentlessly down.

After watching Alexandre Etés die, Charles could no longer think about saving a single one of the other people who fell before him. Yet he remained there, trapped by the crowd, too panicked and upset to even think about using his powers to escape. Later, he learned that six thousand prisoners had been executed. At the time, it seemed like millions. And, at each death, Charles felt his or her last moments: felt the life snuffed out in an instant of pure anguish. By the end, he was too numb to feel anything.

He didn’t remember getting home, but somehow he must have continued to use his powers to keep himself safe, without even being conscious of it. He must also have walked all the way back from Paris: taking paths across country, through ditches and briars, so that his clothes were torn and dirty and his face and hands covered in scratches by the time he reached the safety of the mansion. Madame Ballinger had put him to bed, although she had been unable to get him to respond to her frenzied questions until the following day: by which time, Charles was unable to remember. But the horror followed him in his dreams nonetheless. Eventually, it spilled over into the rest of his life as well, so that each day he re-lived his own powerlessness. At last, that had been too much to bear.

Ever since that day, Charles had used every ounce of his strength to keep himself from remembering it; blocking out the voices that threatened to overwhelm him. Small wonder that most of the time he seemed mute and unresponsive; small wonder that he refused his food and was beginning to waste away. Sometimes, however, the memories broke through all the same – snippets of other lives, of the terror and regret of those who were about to die. When this happened, Charles screamed along with those he had seen executed; wept their tears and ran to safety as they had been unable to do.

For now, however, he was silent. He lay, mute and unmoving, on the thin straw pallet in the whitewashed room, and barely even noticed the attendants who tried to demand that he ate, or the young doctor who coaxed and pleaded with him.

But, on the second day, Magneto visited him.

**

The attendants entered first: two of them, immediately hurrying to either side of the bed, reaching out to grip Charles’ shoulders and ensure he was safely pinned down (although Charles moved so rarely the restraint seemed rather excessive). Then Magneto swept into the room: a tall, forbidding figure, his cape spreading out like a sail behind him. Dr Henri Mercauilt hurried anxiously on Magneto’s heels, stumbling on the cloak as it swept across the floor.

“I know you usually like to give patients a few days to settle in, sir.” The doctor was explaining in nervously hasty tones. “But I worry that Monsieur Xavier is already dangerously weak, and he has refused all our efforts to persuade him to eat. He barely responds to anything! Of course, we could try the stomach pump, but…” Magneto silenced Dr Mercauilt with an impatient wave of his hand.

“Very well, doctor, I appreciate your concerns.” He stepped towards the bed, brow furrowed in serious contemplation. “Yes, I remember Monsieur Xavier’s arrival.” He mused thoughtfully. “I assume he has shown no indication of recovering the use of his legs either?” He didn’t wait for Dr Mercauilt’s answer. “I can see this will be a challenging case.”

Charles, meanwhile, saw the cloaked figure as if through a haze: ghosts of the revolution swam around Magneto, blurring his features as the healer bent forward. He snapped his fingers, right in Charles’ face, but Charles was so focused on trying to block out the memories that he didn’t even blink. Magneto nodded, raising his head again.

The next moment, he had something in his hand: Charles hadn’t seen him remove it from a pocket or pouch, but he must have done so. He frowned as Magneto lowered a narrow metal bar towards Charles – the potential threat breaking through his concentration for a moment. The bar was vibrating slightly, and was soon joined by another in the man’s left hand.

“N-“ Charles tried to protest through dry lips. Magneto looked rather gratified at this attempt at speech.

“Make sure he remains still.” He warned the attendants, the bars blurring a little as they vibrated even faster. Charles could hear a faint hum, and he tried to pull away from the attendants, but then Magneto stopped, with the instruments held just an inch above Charles’ torso. Suddenly he recognised them: metallic tractors!

Of course, Charles had experienced this kind of treatment before – as had most wealthy French citizens. The tractors were supposed to react with the magnetic fluid emanating from each individual, shifting the flow and restoring it to harmony, correcting the imbalances of the body. Charles had never had much faith in the procedure: but then, it had never felt quite like it did now. Although his nightshirt was between his skin and the instruments, he could feel them warm against him. It was as if his flesh vibrated with the metal: tingling deliciously as they teased it.

For the first time in months, Charles forgot the Terror. Instead, all he could focus on was the sensation as Magneto moved the tractors slowly up his chest. He gasped, arching his back involuntarily as the instruments passed over his nipples, a delicious warmth spreading through his body. He hadn’t felt this way since… since Alex…

But even those memories couldn’t spoil the experience. Charles groaned, licking dry lips as the tractors moved back down his body. He didn’t care about the presence of the attendants or the doctor – he barely even noticed their thoughts. All he cared about was the throbbing in his groin as the tractors approached it. He tried to tilt his hips, tensing his legs to raise his body closer to the tantalising stroke of the metal rods, but his legs didn’t seem to obey him. His penis, however, was rapidly stiffening – quite obvious as the thin nightshirt rose in a tent around it.

Charles didn’t notice Magneto smile slightly as the tractors followed the line of his erection. He pulled at the attendants, wanting to touch it, wanting _Magneto_ to wrap his hand around Charles’ cock and…

“Oh Christ!” Charles blurted out, close to orgasm now.

“I think perhaps that’s enough?” Dr Mercauilt suggested hesitantly, his cheeks red.

“Hmm.” Magneto’s face was impassive again, the smile wiped from his features as if it had never existed. He stepped back, lowering his arms to his sides. The tractors vanished as quickly as they had appeared, and Charles was left unsatisfied and - now that he was more alert than he had been before Magneto entered – rather embarrassed. His erection still strained against the cotton of his shirt, and there was nothing he could do to hide it, held as he was by the two attendants.

“I… I don’t know why I…” He stammered, wanting to apologise for his behaviour somehow. Dr Mercauilt looked awkwardly away, but Magneto didn’t even seem to notice Charles.

“Keep hold of him while he – how should I put it? – _recovers._ ” The healer ordered the attendants. “It wouldn’t do to let self-abuse worsen his condition, after all!” He turned to Dr Mercauilt. “I think you’ll find, doctor, that Monsieur Xavier should be more responsive to your efforts to feed him now.”

Magneto swept towards the door, and then paused in the doorway. He didn’t turn round, but barked his orders over his shoulder.

“I shall expect him at my sessions on Tuesday and Thursday mornings from now on.” He announced. “I think we still have a long way to go, but I’m confident Monsieur Xavier will respond to my methods.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, magnetic tractors were a real thing. I don't think anyone in recorded history had quite the effect Erik has with them, though... ;-)
> 
> Self-abuse was, for a long time, a euphemism for masturbation. This was widely believed to be pathological by the mid 18th century, resulting in physical and mental wasting, and even death (see this man, who has made himself very ill: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Male_displaying_the_effects_of_onanism_Wellcome_L0031937.jpg).


	3. First Seance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it probably seemed like I was never going to update this... But it gets quite steamy, so hopefully that makes up for it a bit.
> 
> Partly I got distracted by other genres, partly it's because I have no one to beta my X Men fic at the moment, which makes me nervous and slow. So if anyone would like to volunteer, a bit of criticism may speed me up...!

Dr. Mercauilt put down his quill and raised his head from the leather-bound volume in front of him, massaging his tired forehead with two fingers. It was getting too dark to write, even with the candle flickering right beside him. Some of his patients were worrying him, and he always dreaded going to his superior for assistance. Although he’d worked for Magneto for four years – and his employer had never exactly been cruel – he nonetheless found the man unpredictable and confusing. Perhaps it was because he was a foreigner.

However, despite his youth, Dr. Mercauilt was a good physician, he knew that. And he wanted to do well by his patients. Monsieur Xavier was, it seemed, beyond the reach of most remedies: even bloodletting seemed to have had little effect on his mental state! But he _had_ responded to Magneto’s treatment, several days ago. Aside from the rather embarrassing physical reaction (of which Mercauilt preferred not to think if he could help it), Xavier had become clearer – had even spoken a little for a time – and he had obediently eaten whatever was put in front of him ever since. However, his mind seemed to be wandering once again. He stared vacantly into the distance, barely responding when the doctor entered his room or tried to initiate conversation. Perhaps if he went to Magneto, suggested another session…

There was a sharp rap on the door and Dr. Mercauilt jumped nervously, turning his head towards it. He cleared his throat to speak, but the door had already swung open.

“Do you have a moment, doctor?” It was Magneto, dressed down at the end of the day: no cloak or hat, but only a simple crimson shirt over trim black breeches that clung to his muscular thighs. Mercauilt nodded, dry-mouthed. He wondered why Magneto’s very presence made him quite so awkward.

“Y-yes, sir.” He stammered, finding himself rising to his feet without thinking.

“I wondered whether you could give me your assessment of Monsieur Xavier’s condition.” Magneto continued. Well, that certainly simplified matters! But it surprised the doctor so much that he found himself flustered.

“Xavier?”

“Yes, Xavier!” Magneto frowned, looking rather impatient by this delayed response. “How has been after my efforts with the tractors?” Henri Mercauilt chewed his lip.

“Well, he did seem to be improving. But this last day or so he’s taken a turn for the worse.” He admitted. “He’s still eating, and he responds to certain commands – neither is he wet or dirty. But he’s stopped communicating, and he seems little aware of his surroundings…” He trailed off sadly, feeling as if he’d failed. Magneto had opened up the path to Xavier, yet Mercauilt had been unable to follow it. Magneto nodded curtly.

“Good. It sounds as if he’s still in a state where he might be reached by a physical stimulus. I think it’s time to try something else.”

“Do you have a… er… a _séance_ tomorrow?” Dr. Mercauilt never quite knew what word to use to describe Magneto’s group therapeutic sessions, even though he’d become more accustomed to them over the years, the unorthodox nature of the treatment still made him uncomforable. His employer gave a thin smile.

“Indeed.” He agreed. “Make sure that he’s brought over with the others at 11 o’clock.” He grinned wider, showing his teeth. “I shall get through to Monsieur Xavier this time, never fear!”

**

Charles shivered, his thin white shirt barely seeming to be any barrier at all against the chill breeze that tore through the room as the door was opened. He folded his arms across his chest, gazing up at Dr. Mercauilt as he entered. His visual image of the doctor was interrupted by the unruly tendrils of hair that hung across his eyes but Charles could clearly feel the doctor’s concern, radiating out from his frowning face. He didn’t bother to push the hair aside.

Two attendants entered behind the doctor, one of them carrying a bowl of water and a cloth. Mercauilt motioned for them to stand aside and approached Charles, touching his shoulder gently. Physical contact was sometimes the only way to reach his patients, lost as their minds were: that little he acknowledged was a benefit of Magneto’s approach. He was pleased to see that Charles turned his head when he felt the pressure on his shoulder, although his gaze was still blank and unfocused.

“Monsieur Xavier,” He spoke slowly, carefully. “We’re going to try a new treatment. Something that will help you to let go of your pain.” He paused for a second. “Charles?” He tried hesitantly. While propriety didn’t generally allow him to use his patients’ Christian names, sometimes it helped to gain a reaction. “Can you hear me, Charles?”

Mercauilt’s words were distant, drowned by the barrage of voices in Charles’ head. The words of the long-dead still spun through Charles’ brain, mingling with the thoughts of those closer at hand: the lazy boredom of one of the attendants, working out how many hours remained before his sole afternoon off; the anxiety of the other, who feared that Charles might become violent when they tried to wash and shave him. Mercauilt’s voice came in two waves – his spoken words fluctuating with his thoughts. _Is he really ready for a séance? I know I shouldn’t question the great Magneto, but his methods… well, it’s unsettling, it really is. Monsieur Xavier is a gentleman! I can’t quite imagine…_

Charles’ mouth twitched slightly, almost smiling. He had lost the ability to tell which of Mercauilt’s words were spoken and which were in his head, but he thought he understood.

“I’m ready.” He said, although he shivered a little harder at the thought of encountering Magneto again. His voice was throaty with lack of use. But it reassured Dr. Mercauilt, who straightened up to beckon to the attendants.

“Philippe and Jean will help you to get ready.” Mercauilt explained. “Perhaps we might cut your hair?” His words became a little hesitant as the attendants approached, laying down the bowl on the bed beside Charles.

“Don’t touch my hair!” Charles panicked suddenly, the doctor’s words reaching him clearly through the tangled voices in his mind. In his alarm he saw filthy wigs scattered across a dirty prison floor: the symbol of wealth snatched from prisoners who stumbled forward, bare heads bowed in humiliation. Charles’ hands flew to his head, terror written across his face, and Dr. Mercauilt’s voice became soothing.

“I promise you we won’t touch your hair if you don’t wish it.” He reassured Charles. “Will you allow the attendants to wash you?” There was a long pause, and Charles slowly lowered his hands. Mercauilt turned to his assistants, looking relieved. “Don’t attempt to shave him.” He told them. “I don’t think we dare risk the razor.”

Philippe nodded smartly, wetting the cloth in the bowl of water in order to begin.

**

They had to carry Charles to the salon, of course. One attendant on either side kept firm hold of a patient who now smelled rather better than he had done an hour previously, although his hair still hung in bedraggled curtains around his unshaven face. He was dressed in an open-necked shirt, breeches and stockings – passable, but hardly decent for a public occasion. Not that Charles noticed. The prospect of seeing Magneto again had somehow struck him through the torment that usually overwhelmed him. He couldn’t quite get a handle on the feelings that coursed through him, though: a sort of nervous, expectant relief.

Magneto himself met them in the doorway of the great hall of Chateau Aimant. The attendants froze, awaiting instruction, but Magneto didn’t speak for long moments, his eyes travelling over Charles in a manner that was somehow reassuring and invasive all at once. A slight smile played over his lips as he said.

“Well, Monsieur Xavier, you’re looking better than when last I saw you.”

His words reached Charles with a clarity that Dr. Mercauilt’s never had and Charles found himself flushing slightly, turning his head away, unable to look Magneto in the eye. He had caught the double meaning of this remark in Magneto’s thoughts. So, the great Magneto found Charles Xavier attractive? Charles wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that.

He didn’t have long to ponder the matter, however. The attendants were waved briskly into the hall, and they took Charles in, depositing him rather roughly in one of the few empty chairs arranged in a circle in the centre of the room. Other patients were still arriving, and this gave Charles time to grow accustomed to the dim light in order to take in the scene in front of him. The drapes were tightly drawn across the large windows of the elegant room so that but little light crept around them to illuminate the interior. The chairs were arranged around a wooden baquet.[1] Charles couldn’t tell what was inside it, because the tub was covered by a heavy lid, from which metal rods protruded at regular intervals, bent towards the chairs that encircled the device. There were 12 chairs in the circle, and a motley assortment of Chateau Aimant’s patients seated in them: both male and female, to Charles’ considerable surprise. Most were quiet, and Charles could sense their anticipation. They had enjoyed this experience previously, and were eager for it to begin.

When the last chair was filled, Magneto paced firmly into the centre of the room, his tall, imposing figure easily visible just beyond the circle of bodies – some slumped in confusion, some upright and eagerly waiting. There was a polished, mahogany instrument in front of him. At first, with its long, slightly curved legs and the pedals underneath, Charles thought it looked something like a harpsichord, but when Magneto reverently lifted the lid and folded it back he realised it was nothing of the kind. Inside, the instrument was made of glass – an exquisitely moulded funnel of bowls slotted inside each other from small to large. They were seemingly mounted on a spindle for, when Magneto seated himself behind the instrument and began to press the foot pedals, the bowls began to turn as one.

Charles frowned, distracted from the usual terrible memories by his interest in the proceedings. He wondered how this mysterious instrument related to the baquet in front of them. What’s more, he found himself almost mesmerised by Magneto. The man’s cape spilt in luxurious folds from his broad shoulders, rippling slightly at each movement of the nerve-doctor’s arms. His elegant fingers hesitated over the glass bowls, and Charles, drinking in every detail of Magneto’s appearance, noticed that his fingertips glistened with moisture. Magneto raised his head for a second, and his penetrating stare seemed to settle on Charles and Charles alone. The former aristocrat caught his breath, his pulse quickening as his eyes locked onto Magneto’s. There was the hint of a smile, and then the other man’s gaze dropped to the instrument beneath him.

Charles realised what the instrument was just as Magneto began to play, his fingers brushing against the bowls as they turned, producing a haunting but melodic whine. Charles had seen one once before, in a salon performance before the revolution: the glass armonica.[2] He thought it had been brought to Paris by an American, and recalled that there had been quite a craze for the instrument, which produced the eerie sounds of musical glasses with greater ease than by the usual methods. But he had never heard it played quite like Magneto was playing it now. The lilting tones seemed to thrill right through him: the lower end of the scale vibrating every fibre in his body, while the high notes were almost painful in their long, drawn-out pitch, setting his teeth on edge.

Around Charles, had he been in any position to notice it, the other patients slowly relaxed their postures, a collective sigh ringing around the room as the music of the armonica washed over them, sending each and every one of them into a mesmeric trance. Charles’ hands dropped uselessly to his sides, his head lolling as his body thrummed at every change in pitch. But he was aware of another pull as well – similar to the effect the tractors had previously had on him – heightening his every sense so that his own heartbeat boomed, loud and fast, in his ears. He gasped, mouth remaining slackly open as his body jerked forward a little. His vision seemed blurred now, but he could see that the metal rod in front of him was vibrating furiously. Without even considering his actions, Charles reached out slowly, fingers brushing against the pole.

He cried out, then, his body jerking, a rush of sensation coursing through his body: a stimulus so powerful that he was on his feet before he even noticed it. Around him, other patients were similarly rising, some grabbing onto the rods with both hands, other running their fingers more hesitantly along the length of the metal. Charles’ fingers tightened around the bar, holding himself up with it, the metal hot beneath his fingers. The sensations were so intense that he staggered, half in a swoon against the baquet, flinging out his left arm in a movement so wild his shirt slipped from his shoulders.

None of the patients seemed concerned with propriety. One woman, opposite Charles, had somehow conspired to allow the ribbons of her dress to come entirely undone, so that it gaped open to her waist, revealing the lacy fabric of her undergarments. The man to her left had gone so far as to tear open his shirt, and was pressing his naked chest against the metal bar, a bulge clearly visible in his tight breeches. Charles, too, felt a stirring in his groin, his entire being pulsing warm and alive with the metal in his hand.

The last lingering notes of the armonica died out, but none of the bodies around the baquet seemed to notice this, clinging as they were to the vibrating metal. Magneto rose to his feet in a swish of his cloak, striding towards the edge of the circle. He approached the first patient – the man with the open shirt – and stood behind him. He placed his hands on the man’s shoulders and the patient trembled, mouth opening in what was presumably a groan. Charles couldn’t hear what was whispered, but he could sense some of the patient’s desires above the tumultuous emotions of the rest of the audience. _Heal me, doctor, my nerves – oh, touch me!_

Magneto bent his head, lips close to the man’s ear, and his fingers brushed across his patient’s cheek, hand caressing his face and then his temple. The intensity of the patient’s thoughts increased in force – _oh doctor, oh Christ, I want you, need you_ – and Charles saw him clasp at his own cock through his breeches. The man continued to caress himself, mouth slackly open, as Magneto moved away with a slight smile.

Charles found himself unaccountably jealous and closed his eyes as Magneto continued his rounds, nonetheless feeling the pleasure of each patient as the healer reached them. The air seemed thick with their emotions, a turbulent eddy that joined the thrum and pull of the metal, so that Charles’ erection was straining at his breeches well before Magneto reached him. He sensed the man approaching, even with his eyes closed, and Charles found himself swaying forward over the metal post, knuckles tightening on it as Magneto stepped so close that he could feel his breath, warm against his skin.

“Monsieur Xavier,” Magneto whispered, the soft hiss of his voice making every hair on the back of Charles’ neck stand on end. He felt strong hands rest on his hips, fingers warm through the thin fabric of his shirt and he groaned despite himself. He could feel Magneto’s amusement, could tell that he enjoyed the effect he had on his patients, their inability to control themselves in his little sessions. Yet there was something else, beneath that: a specific interest in Charles Xavier, just a little too much attention to Charles’ cock, packed hard into his tight trousers. _I saved you until last for a reason…_ Charles heard Magneto’s thoughts as clear as his words, although he didn’t think the healer was aware of this.

“I believe your problem is in your legs, is it not?” Magneto’s words hummed against Charles’ skin, and Charles nodded, dry-mouthed.

“Y-yes, I…” He couldn’t stammer out any more, for he could already feel Magneto’s hands moving. The healer let his hands slide down Charles’ body, a firm pressure along the outside of his thighs, his fingers making little circling movements against the flesh. It was unbearably erotic, and Charles clung frantically to the metal rod, his body vibrating as Magneto touched him. His hair hung in sweaty hanks around his face, his cheeks flushed, his lips parted and his breathing harsh. He was oblivious to anything else in the room by now: to the other patients, swooning over the baquet or collapsed, gasping, on the tiled floor; to the attendants, standing stiffly by the walls, waiting for the session to finish. All he was aware of was the proximity of Magneto’s body to his, the clean, slightly perfumed scent of his skin, the warmth of his hands as they slid around Charles’ legs just above his knees.

He knew what the healer was going to do before he did it, but he had no intention of stopping him. If anything, he wanted to hurry the lazy movement of Magneto’s hands up the inside of his thighs. Charles gasped as Magneto’s fingers slid slowly higher, massaging Charles’ legs with firm tenderness. When the healer’s hands were still a few inches away from his groin he flung his head back, his body leaning heavily against the nerve-doctor’s chest. Magneto froze for a second, clearly surprised by this reaction, but then he bent his head forward, his face pressed against Charles’ hair as his fingers brushed along the outline of Charles’ cock. A pulse of magnetic force seemed to rip right through Charles – tearing through his body from his own fingers clutching the baquet’s rod to Magneto’s hand on his cock, so that he ejaculated with a force that was almost painful.

Charles closed his eyes, seeing stars as he stumbled. His fingers slipped from the bar as his legs gave way beneath him, and he tumbled to the floor at Magneto’s feet. With a great effort, Charles managed to roll over, staring up at the figure towering above him. He could feel the wet semen stain spreading across his breeches but he felt no shame, only an incredible connection to the healer above him. And he smiled, an expression of pure bliss, and slowly closed his eyes.

 

[1] Obviously ‘baquet’ just means ‘tub’ but it tends not to be translated in texts about Mesmer.

[2] The glass armonica (not ‘harmonica’ as it is sometimes misspelled) was invented by Benjamin Franklin in 1761. Franklin went to Paris in 1776, and introduced the armonica to his associates there. He was also, incidentally, involved in the investigation into Franz Mesmer’s activities in Paris in 1784.


	4. A Game of Chess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies for this being possibly the slowest growing story in the world... I haven't forgotten it!

It was hot outside the chateau, although the thick stone walls of the building still conspired to keep Charles’ cell just that little bit too cold at night. The late summer sun burnt down even through the leaves of the nearby elm which shrouded Charles as he reclined in a chair on the terrace. Down the steps, in the middle of the vast green lawn, some other residents were playing boules. It could have been a scene from anywhere in the French countryside.

That he could think this – think this and not retreat in terror at the prospect of alternative scenes which might have been, of other country houses long ransacked and torched – was a good sign, Charles considered. Indeed, in the last few days, Dr Mercaiult had shed the worried lines on his brow that aged him well beyond his years and been unusually effusive about Charles’ incredible recovery since his first magnetic séance.

It was a small victory in some ways. Now that he was more aware of his state, Charles felt as if he had lost far more than when he had barely known where he was. All he could remember of his first weeks at Chateau Aimant was a blur of visions and voices (most of which, he now knew, had been in his head, although at the time he had thought their presence genuine) and the exhausting effort of pushing down a cruel, pulsating terror that chilled him even more than the stone cell had. But, at that time, he had been so wrapped up in numbing himself to the fear that he had never noticed that he couldn’t walk, that his mind was racing or hazy in turns, that his sleep was disturbed and his dreams – when he finally did close his eyes – still more so. Now, these symptoms troubled him immensely.

Charles sighed. He must remember that he had been lucky. It was strange that knowing what hell he had avoided in The Terror didn’t stop him retreating into self-pity.

Indeed, he’d been so caught up in this morbid introspection that he hadn’t heard Dr Mercauilt approach – neither the man’s footsteps nor his thoughts – until the thin, awkward shape of the nerve-doctor folded into the empty chair a few feet away from Charles.

“Good morning, Monsieur Xavier. How did you sleep?” Mercauilt flashed Charles a tired smile. His mind still rather foggy, Charles found himself unable to tell whether Mercauilt was speaking or thinking when the doctor added. “Rather better than I did, I feel.”

“You have a lot of patients to worry about.” Charles answered kindly. Now that he could recognise the man – as a friend, as a colleague even, for Charles had had his own interests in science before the Revolution put paid to the idea of following them – Charles was aware that Mercauilt was somewhat younger than him. He felt oddly protective, wanting to reassure him. “You’re a good man, Mercauilt.” The doctor gave Charles a quizzical look.

“Thank you, sir.” He said, his voice halting, “But I fear that is no answer to the question I asked you. I trust you slept well?” A faint line appeared on his forehead, his mouth set in a serious line as he regarded Charles. “I hope he’s not slipping back…”

“My sleep is troubled.” Charles admitted, wondering for a moment why Mercauilt would admit his fears of regression so openly. “But my mental faculties have returned, and for that I’m grateful. You don’t have to worry about a decline.”

“That’s good to hear.” Mercauilt smiled, though the line on his forehead didn’t fade. “Perhaps a hypnotic at night would help. Do you find opium beneficial?” Charles considered for a moment. He had used opium for a while as a young man, when he first began to find the voices in his head troublesome. It had blotted them out but so deadened him physically and mentally that he weaned himself off it in time, learning to live with other people’s thoughts instead.

“I fear that opium would cloud my mind in the day as well as night.” He was glad Mercauilt was speaking to him as a gentleman rather than a child, offering him this input into his treatment. “A few nights trial might be a blessing, however. If the effects are unpleasant I can desist, can I not?” Although his tone was measured, there was a slight entreaty in Charles’ words. He wasn’t entirely clear how much he was permitted to decide for himself. Mercauilt’s smile widened, and his face became more youthful at once, the furrow on his brow receding.

“Of course! You are a highly intelligent man, Monsieur Xavier. We want to keep you that way.”

Charles chuckled. “You are too kind, doctor.” He paused for a moment. “You know, for a time I did wonder whether medicine was a route I might take myself.”

“But you’re a gentleman.” Mercauilt pointed out, a little confused. “Why would you need a profession?”

“I suppose I didn’t.” Charles shrugged. “But science is the gentleman’s playground, is it not? If it hadn’t been for the Revolution, I should have liked to write a thesis. I spent a long time exploring Linnaeus’ classifications. I don’t think the Comte de Buffon has taken the concept of adaptation far enough: what of its effects on mankind?”[1]

“Ah, you show your cards then!” Mercauilt laughed. “I’m glad he did. The Comte’s theory that the earth is older than the bible suggests is an intriguing one, albeit rather dangerous to voice aloud.”

“Oh, it surely is!” Charles burst in happily, not even stopping to wonder why Mercauilt’s second sentence had been in the third person. “And the changes in species across recorded history are remarkable. It cannot be that the natural world as it exists today is identical to that of the Creation!”

There was a pause. Mercauilt was frowning a little again, although he seemed confused rather than anxious. Charles swallowed, nervous suddenly. Was his mental state in doubt once again? He wondered whether this would be the case for the rest of his life: every moment of folly, every mis-spoken phrase fearfully analysed by those around him.

“I do beg your pardon, Monsieur Xavier,” Mercauilt began slowly, feeling his way through the words. “But it almost appears that you know my thoughts before I speak them!” He laughed shortly, in a forced effort to show that he was joking. Charles had a sudden, horrifying moment of comprehension. He realised, now, that Mercauilt had spoken to him in the third person – perhaps on several occasions! He had not been speaking after all. He had been _thinking_. And Charles had acted as if this was all part of the conversation. He didn’t know if he was more scared that Mercauilt would realise his gift or consider it a symptom of worsening mental collapse.

“J- just a coincidence, doctor.” He said hesitantly.

“Of course.” Mercauilt said, smiling weakly. “Perhaps he is hearing voices again. His mind takes in my gestures, my manner… and converts it into a spoken response without his conscious awareness?”

Charles closed his eyes for a moment. That had _definitely_ been a thought. But it all sounded so alike to him at the moment! He hadn’t had this problem since adolescence. He would have to watch people more carefully. If their lips didn’t move, he would know they were merely thinking. No more conducting conversations while gazing idly into the green and pleasant distance!

“Monsieur?” Mercauilt broke into his thoughts. He was standing now, leaning forward with one hand on the arm of Charles’ chair. Charles watched his face intently. “Would you like to go inside? Perhaps the sun is too much for you?”

“I could use a rest.” He said gratefully. “Would you mind sending the attendants?”

“Of course.” Mercauilt smiled. And then his face remained frozen in the same expression as he said. “And I think I had better have a word with Magneto. Is there some side effect of his treatment that I don’t know about?”

“Thank you, doctor.” Charles managed to dismiss the thoughts he had heard, face fixed on Mercauilt’s lips.

“He’s really staring now. Is that madness in his eyes?” Mercauilt was still frozen, poised as if about to leave but going nowhere. This was unbearable!

“I feel a little faint in the heat, actually.” Charles added hastily. The reminder worked. Mercauilt straightened up smartly.

“I shall send Claude and Phillippe to carry you back inside.” He said, and hurried away in loping, awkward steps, thankfully before Charles could hear another thought.

**

Doctor Mercauilt knocked on the solid wooden door of Magneto’s study but such was his agitation that he turned the handle and entered without waiting for a response. As he stepped into the room, a series of ball bearings clattered across the oak desk, bouncing to the floor and skittering agitatedly in various directions. Magneto was standing with his hand out-stretched but he lowered it when he saw Mercauilt, one eyebrow raised in some indignation.

“I’m so sorry sir, did I startle you?” Mercauilt dived guiltily after the nearest of the balls, bending to his knees and scrabbling in the dust. “Let me gather them…” He mumbled, reaching frantically.

“Leave them.” Magneto said so commandingly that Mercauilt froze, still crouched on the floor, twisting his head to look up at his employer. “It’s unimportant.” Magneto sounded annoyed despite his words. Mercauilt rose to his feet, brushing ineffectually at his trousers with both hands.

“Nevertheless, I must apologise…” He began. Magneto interrupted him.

“I take it something has happened.” He said, knowing Mercauilt would not have interrupted him so rudely without reason. “Is it Emma?” Emma Frost had been troubling the staff for some days with the distressing delusion that her body was hard as diamond and impervious to all hazards, something she had tried to prove repeatedly with very unpleasant effects.

“Mademoiselle Frost remains much the same; however the camisole protects her from harm.” Mercauilt reassured his employer.[2] “It’s Monsieur Xavier-“

“Charles?” Magneto had been reaching for one of the metal balls that still lingered on the edge of the desk but at this his head whipped up to look at Mercauilt again, keen interest in his eyes, and perhaps even concern. Unlike many of the other staff of Chateau Aimant, who found their employer cold and forbidding, Dr Mercauilt was aware that Magneto did care about his charges. However, he rarely showed it openly.

“Indeed.” He said, a little curtly. He didn’t quite approve of his employer’s informality. Mercauilt didn’t know much about Magneto’s background, but he was pretty sure that he could not be equal in status to Xavier. The Revolution had a lot to answer for! Magneto waved a hand at the wooden chair across from him.

“Sit down and explain, doctor.” He invited his junior colleague. Mercauilt did as he was bade, almost without thinking about it. He was pondering how to explain Charles’ odd behaviour, and barely looked at his employer now seated opposite him, blue eyes cold and unblinking in his attentiveness.

“I was talking to Monsieur Xavier in the garden this morning.” He began hesitantly. “I fear… his mental state is rather unexpected.”

“Oh?” Magneto quirked an eyebrow. “I thought he was more responsive than before the séance?” Mercauilt chewed his lip.

“That’s almost the problem.” He admitted. “He… he replied to a number of questions I hadn’t actually asked him. I can only conclude that he still hears voices.”

“That’s only to be expected.” Magneto all but shrugged. “I’m not a miracle worker, whatever the credulous villagers might suggest!” His mouth twisted a little, amused. Mercauilt sighed. He knew this, of course: he wasn’t even quite sure what had unsettled him to such an extent.

“He’s a very intelligent man.” He said, faltering a little as he tried to think his concerns through. “Even though he is in the grip of illness, he’s more perceptive than perhaps he is even aware himself. I think the voices he hears tell him things he has observed without being conscious of them.” He reddened slightly, not wanting to sound like the ignorant peasants Magneto had mocked. “It was almost as if he could read my thoughts!” Mercauilt laughed to indicate the ridiculousness of this idea, but he was staring at Magneto in uncertain entreaty nonetheless. He was a rational man, but there _were_ things that neither science nor religion could explain, after all.

Magneto frowned, placing his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers in front of his chin. He considered Mercauilt’s words for long moments.

“Remarkable.” He commented at last. Mercauilt nodded.

“He acted as if I had said aloud things I was considering mere moments before.” He added. “A coincidence, perhaps…”

“Or perhaps not.” Magneto interrupted him. “I should like to have a word with Xavier. Have him brought to the library after dinner and ensure that we are left in peace.”

Mercauilt nodded gratefully, glad to share some responsibility.

“Thank you sir, I will do as you ask.”

He didn’t look back as he opened the door and left the room. Had he done so, he might have seen the ball bearings fly backwards, a swift and controlled reversal of their previous erratic descent, defying gravity to move smartly through the air into Magneto’s upturned palm.

**

It was only half past seven and the long galleried library was well lit by the evening sun, which filtered through the half-shaded windows. Charles looked around him with great interest as he was carried in. The room was double height: in the far left corner, a wrought iron staircase spiralled up to an upper gallery well stocked with volumes. If only his legs would let him, Charles thought, he could have spent many happy hours exploring their contents. The lower half of the room was more sparsely populated with the occasional rack of leather bound volumes between the tall windows, and here and there a plush couch or chair, upholstered in rich brown leather.

Near the windows at the centre of the room, which were open to allow a light evening breeze in to dispel the stuffiness, was a small table, a leather chair placed to either side. The attendants assisted Charles to one of these, and he realised that the table was laid out with a chess board.

“I believe you play a little?” The voice startled Charles and he craned his head, seeing the tall, slim figure of Magneto emerge from behind an open shutter. He had been waiting on the balcony outside, presumably enjoying the sun now it had descended from its glaring zenith.

“A little.” Charles said hesitantly, finding the man no less imposing now he had recovered certain of his faculties. He had been unable to hear Magneto’s thoughts before. Would he have better access to them now?

Magneto waved a hand imperiously at the attendants, and they bowed in response, retiring silently from the room. Charles’ mouth felt a little dry, wary at being left alone with this man. He remembered the strange power Magneto had had over him during the séance. What would it be like to be alone with him?

Magneto strode forward, picking up a carafe from a nearby tray, and filling two glasses with wine. As he approached, Charles found himself holding his breath. The hairs on the back of his neck were on end. Magneto’s very presence seemed to prickle his skin, warming him. He smelt the scent the other man wore, heard the rustle of his breath, and it so unsettled him that he was too flustered to even consider accessing Magneto’s thoughts. No other man had ever had quite such an effect on him.

“I hear from Dr Mercauilt that your health is improving.” Magneto’s voice was smooth and rich, a faint twang to his French. Charles guessed that he was Prussian, but probably not a native German-speaker. Polish, perhaps?[3]

“Monsieur?” There was amusement in Magneto’s voice and Charles realised he hadn’t replied. He found himself blushing.

“I’m sorry, I found myself distracted by your accent.” He was babbling a little, embarrassed and trying to recover his composure, not helped by the sardonic smile on the face of the man now seated opposite him. He tried to make light conversation. “Am I right in thinking you hail from Prussia?”

“I do.” Magneto’s tone became more solemn, his eyes fixed on Charles. “My descendants were one of just ten so-called protected Jewish families in Breslau. This ‘protection’ did not serve my parents well.” He paused for a moment and Charles felt a flash of pain in the man’s mind although his voice remained level. “The persecution you have faced simply for an accident of birth, Monsieur Xavier… it is the history of my people.”

“I’m sorry.” Charles wasn’t sure what to say, yet despite his embarrassment he knew that these words were a gift, evidence of Magneto’s trust in him. He would not have revealed as much to his other patients, and probably not to his staff either.

“You have nothing to apologise for.” Magneto inclined his head graciously. “We have both lost much, I feel. But perhaps this forms a good basis for our friendship?” He raised his glass. Charles found himself smiling, raising his own glass.

“To friendship!” He drank deeply, but then looked quizzically at the man opposite him as he placed his wine glass down. “But what am I to call you, if you are to be my friend? I’m not sure that your stage name is appropriate.” His eyes were dancing a little. Magneto laughed.

“You find my title amusing?” He said, with good humour. He paused for a moment, considering. “My real name is Erik Lehnsherr.” Charles caught the faintest hint of a thought accompanying this sentence. _No harm in revealing it… is there?_

“Monsieur Lehnsherr,” He echoed. And then his smile widened. “Your secret is safe with me.” Magneto smiled back: he looked, for a brief moment, almost gratified by Charles’ words, as if they had suggested something he had hoped for but not really expected to find.

“Erik, please.” His grey-blue eyes fixed on Charles with unsettling intensity. “There is no need for formality among equals.” Charles swallowed, the words unexpected. He had no brothers, and he had rarely called another man by his first name, except for servants of course.

And his lovers…

The last thought sent a shiver through him, and it was a moment before he could reply.

“Charles,” he said at last, his voice a little hoarse. “You must call me Charles.” Erik nodded, and there was a pause for a moment. Then he said.

“So, Charles, you have the advantage.” He indicated the chess board. “Are you going to make a move?”

**

The conversation flowed easily as they played. Charles couldn’t remember the last time he had felt such a connection to another person. Erik was fiercely intelligent, with an intensity that might have seemed almost threatening were it not often lightened with a keen, and sometimes playful, wit. He was an excellent chess player, too: so much so that Charles even considered cheating by listening in for his next move!

There was something guarded about the man, however, and it was this that stopped Charles prying. It was rather a relief, too, after the experience he had had with Dr Mercauilt, to speak to someone whose mind was much more carefully compartmentalised. Erik’s thoughts seemed to be behind a wall, so that Charles caught only the mundane moments that flickered to the surface. He knew, now, that he had the ability to look beyond the barrier, but it seemed impolite when Erik’s conversation avoided the personal so utterly.

After the initial revelation about his background, Erik said nothing more about his family, although he listened sympathetically when Charles spoke of his own loss. This was when the game had finally come to an end in a hard-won victory for Erik, and they sat gazing out into the grey twilight, sipping brandy. The alcohol and the company had so relaxed him that Charles quite forgot his resolution to look always at the face of his conversant.

“My parents both died before the Terror.” His words were soft, despite their import. These were things he had never told another soul. “I didn’t mourn either of them, particularly. They were so remote, so distant from me. My mother in particular cared for nothing but the image she projected in society. I sometimes wish she had lived to witness the executions. It might have made her realise what a fragile edifice that image was built upon.” He paused a moment. “When she died, I thought it was a chance to begin again. To create a new, fairer order in my own tiny segment of France.” Charles sighed a little, wondering if the brandy was making him maudlin. “But the country had other ideas about liberty and justice. In the end I was too cowardly to follow through any of my grand plans. I simply went into hiding.”

“You were just one man.” Erik said kindly. “It takes an army to fight a war.”

“Perhaps.” Charles sighed again. “But I didn’t even try to fight. I can’t help thinking I could have saved _someone_. Yet the only man I saved was myself.”

“Was there another that you wished to save?” Erik was extremely perceptive, Charles realised. “Someone you loved?”

“Love may be too strong a word.” Charles admitted. “I was…” He sought around for the words. “Rather _casual_ with my emotions in my youth.” He gave a wry laugh, an awkward effort to lighten the mood. “But there was someone I cared for. A lover.”

“I see.” Erik’s words were so smooth that Charles missed the intensity of interest behind them. “And what was her name?”

“I- it was…” Charles stammered, looking away at the tree tops fading into the night. He could feel his face growing red.

“ _His_ name, then. How very interesting.”

Charles looked back at Erik, despite the hot flush across his cheeks. “Interesting? Why do you say that?” There was a long pause. The hint of a triumphant smile seemed to play across the corners of Erik’s mouth as he finally answered.

“I didn’t actually _say_ a word.”

 

[1] Linnaeus developed the classification of the natural world by genus and species still used today. During the late 1700s, several scientists questioned the biblical account of Creation. The Comte de Buffon stated that the earth had to be older than claimed by the Judeo-Christian religion, which was proven in the early 1800s by geologist Charles Lyell. At around the time Charles and Henri are talking, Jean-Baptiste Lamarck was developing the first complete theory of the evolution of species (by means of the inheritance of acquired characteristics), made public in 1800.

[2] Camisole was the French term for the strait-jacket, introduced in 1770.

[3] At this time, Germany was not a unified country. The powerful state of Prussia made up a good deal of Germany after unification in 1871, and at its peak also included parts of what are today Poland, Lithuania, Russia, the Czech Republic, Denmark and Belgium.


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